


In Your Image

by tenandi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel eats for the first time, Az is a badass angel warrior, Battle Scenes, Crowley is super evil...yeah right, Crowley leaves his mark on Azira, Eventual Smut, Lucifer created Crowley, Mostly accurate historical events, Slowest Burn, So much research but it was for love, real historical figures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-09-07 05:17:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenandi/pseuds/tenandi
Summary: The Sumerians called him Asaruldu of the Anunnaki, “the shining god.” The Welsh knew him as Rhydderch Hael, a mighty king from Hen Ogledd. And the Norse believed he was Surtr of the jötuun, a human-shaped entity who would do battle at the dawn of Ragnarök.Lucifer knew him by another name, one bestowed by the same holy power that cast him from Heaven and his rightful kingdom. “Aziraphale,” he uttered.





	1. Ye will know him by his blaed

The Sumerians called him Asaruldu of the Anunnaki, “the shining god.” The Welsh knew him as Rhydderch Hael, a mighty king from Hen Ogledd. And the Norse believed he was Surtr of the jötuun, a human-shaped entity who would do battle at the dawn of Ragnarök.

Lucifer knew him by another name, one bestowed by the same holy power that cast him from Heaven and his rightful kingdom. “Aziraphale,” he uttered.

Pseudonyms aside (as all names carry certain magick) he was known by other means. What the Romans would call gladius and indeed, model their own signature weapons after, would come to define the angel’s iconography. ‘Ye will know him by his blaed,’ was a warning passed down by oral tradition. The blade in question was just a few feet long and three inches wide. The whole sword weighed a mere two pounds, but it was deadly in its efficiency and terrible in its divine form. When activated, it blazed with sacred fire that eclipsed the flames of Hell. A different kind of burning.

Lucifer was not deterred, though his princes and dignitaries on earth were at a standstill with the angel. The Father of Lies was restless, ruthless, and inventive. The attributes of his demonic nature served his dark design to breed a twisted version of the heavenly guardian, an arch-rival to bring about Aziraphale’s destruction. He began his machinations to that end.

-

Rome, 9 BCE

Arminius was just a boy when he was sent to Rome by his father Segimerus the Conqueror. Held as a hostage, Arminius was cut off from the Cherusci tribe and his Germanic heritage, and instead was to be raised in the Roman tradition. He wasn’t nine years old when the first vision appeared to him in his private quarters.

He was staring into the hearth with tears sliding down his cheeks. He missed his family and friends and felt abandoned in this foreign place. His only remedy was to brood, which he often did by the fireplace, refusing food and comfort from the maids and servants. This evening, however, would be different.

A silky voice was whispering in the flames. Arminius shifted from his chair and drew near to the fire, believing he must have slipped into a dream.

“Who’s there?” the boy asked.

“I am the dweller in the abysss…” the voice hissed. “The demon of dispersssion.”

Arminius was afraid. He shrank back and held his knees in his hands. “Are you going to hurt me?”

“Quite the opposssite,” the voice said sweetly. “I’m going to help vanquish your enemiesss. Lift you to your height and take back your legacy.”

Arminius moved forward again. “What...what shall I call you?”

The scent of sulphur permeated the air along with a sharp cracking noise behind him. When he turned, he saw a dark figure seated in his chair. The man had long red hair and glowing yellow eyes like a snake. He wore a black tunic that spilled onto the floor in waves.

“Choronzon,” it whispered.

The boy chewed on his lower lip and tried the name out loud but couldn’t quite manage it. “Maybe I can just call you something easier?” he asked. The demon lifted an elegant eyebrow. “How about...Crowley?”

The supernatural creature shrugged disinterestedly. “The name isn’t as important as what I’ve come to give you,” it replied.

“And what’s that?” Arminius asked.

“Power,” the demon gloated. “Pure, unadultured...power!”

-

The Balkans, 6 CE

“Hold!” Aziraphale commanded. The eight Roman legions behind him came to a grinding halt, their horses whinnying in complaint. They had made their way east of the Rhine to put down a growing rebellion of auxiliary recruits turned traitors. Aziraphale shifted on his mount, a bright white horse he named Ora, and turned to face the men.

He lifted off his helmet to reveal a mess of ice-blonde curls, somehow miraculously uncrumpled from his headgear. Instead of the sweat, dirt, and road-weariness of his fellow soldiers he appeared pristine and refreshed from the ride.

A young equite in his early twenties rode up to his side and took the angel’s helmet for him.

“Arminius!” Aziraphale said cheerfully. “Are you ready to fight?”

The youth smiled to hide his fear. His brown eyes were wary and his hands trembled. “It’s what I’ve been trained to do. If we don’t stop this uprising it could put the entire Empire at risk. We must defend the emperor’s domain.”

“Indeed we must,” Aziraphale replied, eyes scanning over the battlefield. There were perhaps ten or twenty thousand rebels present. They were no match for the Roman troops. Arminius buffed out Aziraphale’s helmet and handed it back to him. “And no time like the present,” Aziraphale added.

He centered himself in front of his soldiers and called out in a loud voice. 

“Be not afraid! The tribes of Illyricum are no match for our strength ordained by higher powers. We will make short work of this rabble and restore the province in the name of Augustus!” The men cheered, invigorated by the divine grace of the angel. They surged forward to take back what rightfully belonged to the Empire.

Aziraphale followed after them with his sword held high in the air. The rain blew around him but didn’t make contact with his skin. Ahead, he saw a defensive line forming in the rebel ranks. He pulled on Ora’s reigns to guide her to the left while his men drove toward the center. His horse was faster than theirs, and when he reached the end of the enemy line he turned and moved parallel to them. An unearthly fire shot from his sword and illuminated the rebel’s faces despite the mid-afternoon sun. The rebels were enraptured and terrified by the light, some whispering prayers to old gods while others turned and ran. Many knew the stories of the white angel in one form or another. Aziraphale finished his lap and was out of the way just in time for the legionnaires to break against the enemy troops.

Aziraphale turned his horse to meet the rebels from behind as his soldiers advanced. On his way he cut through the opposition one by one with his flaming sword. It sliced through armor easily, allowing him to disable his opponents and render them useless in battle. His men followed behind and picked off the leftovers.

Although it made for an easy victory, intelligence reported hundreds of thousands in the rebel army in camps laid out through the region. Aziraphale conferred with his generals to create a plan of action, but little did he know that their efforts would play out for the next four years. The Bellum Batonianum, as it came to be called, would prove to be an uprising that massively weakened the Roman army even in victory, positioning them for their downfall.

-

9 CE, Central Germania

“You’ve done so well,” Crowley cooed. He was spread out over a chair in Arminius’ military tent.

The young soldier smiled. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you stand.”

“Sloth is a vice,” Crowley replied, in the same tone one might prattle off that ‘patience is a virtue.’

Arminius grinned. “You and your vices. I suppose I shouldn’t complain. You’re investment in me has gotten me this far.”

“And Varus doesn’t suspect?” Crowley asked.

Arminius had been working his way up the ladder to impress the Roman governor and military commander. If he could attain his trust, it would make his eventual ploy all the easier. “He does not,” the young man replied. “I’ve endeared myself to the angel as well. I believe he remains in the Balkans but should return soon. The rebellion is coming to an end.”

Crowley spat on the carpeted ground and it sizzled, burning a hole where it landed. “Bah,” he muttered, “I’ll deal with him when the time comes.”

“It is your destiny as I have mine,” Arminius said. “I have made alliances between the Cherusci and the other tribes: the Marsi, Chatti, Bructeri, Chauci, and Sicambri.”

“Excellent,” Crowley replied. “And now?”

“I am not sure what’s next,” Arminius admitted. “I was hoping to hear your guidance.”

Crowley stood, much to the young man’s surprise. He sauntered more than he walked, his hips jutting from side to side as if balancing on a beam. Crowley dragged a hand absently through his long red hair.

“Such a pity that the Illyricum rebellion is coming to an end,” he mused. “But of course where one thing ends another begins. Perhaps we can find another way to distract Varus? I prefer means with very little effort, personally. A simple lie would do.”

Arminius raised his brows with interest. “Such as?”

“Fake the report,” Crowley said simply. “Say that there’s some unsettled mess in the north you’ve just caught wind of...something that requires a robust military response. If you can convince Varus, he’ll send his men right into your trap.”

“My trap?” Arminius asked.

“Of course,” Crowley supplied. “Set your soldiers somewhere along the way. Somewhere covert. Up they come and down they go.”

Arminius leered happily. “I know just the place!”

9 CE, Central Germania

Aziraphale returned from his ventures over the Adriatic and was unsettled to learn of new troubles in the Germanic lands. A fresh rebellion had been instigated, and now several legions had been exhausted through their efforts in the Balkans. He tried to rally himself as he prepared to meet General Varus. In these times of doubt, divine counsel was sorely needed.

It turned out that Varus planned to send three legions along with calvary and cohorts to suppress the uprising. Aziraphale recommended temperance, but Varus was proud and wanted to make a show of it. The angel relented, knowing that his part to play was minimal in the ultimate affairs of humanity. Their freedom of will was gracefully bestowed, after all, and they necessitated the right to exercise God’s gift.

And so he went with the legions up toward Kalkriese, concealing his doubt in the face of man’s will. As they neared the Teutoburg Forest those doubts were laid bare. An overwhelming force of Germanic tribesmen had been laying in wait, and the area was unfamiliar to the Roman troops. The advantage of surprise as well as familiarity with the land proved fatal to the Empire’s soldiers.

Aziraphale rallied the men into formations that were far superior to tribal warfare, but was surprised to see those strategies matched by the rebels. At one point, he was baffled to see the tribesmen emulate the testudo form, the tactic where Roman soldiers encased themselves in a wall of wooden shields. The imperial troops were so stunned that they didn’t know how to defend themselves, and quickly perished.

Aziraphale knew then that someone had to be working from the inside, but whom? He scanned the forest using angelic sight until he narrowed in on his target. His heart broke when he spotted Arminius watching and guiding the men from afar. So here was the culprit. The angel slapped down his golden face guard with furious force.

The angel didn’t hesitate but rode toward the scoundrel while taking down several of the enemy soldiers on his way. He felt a fury rising from his stomach to his chest and gripped his sword tightly. After everything he’d been through with the young man, he’d decided to turn on everyone he knew! Aziraphale was at a loss for how this could have transpired. He’d seen Arminius kill the same people he now purported to lead!

Aziraphale drew up a few feet short of his goal, settling in front of the turncoat. Arminius was surprised to see the angel and couldn’t help but open and shut his mouth wordlessly.

“Arminius!” Aziraphale shouted. “How could you do this? Those are your own men dying at the hands of your enemy!”

Arminius turned his helpless eyes to the battle scene playing out in front of him. He saw Varus struggling to fight off three tribesmen at once. His closest friend Antonius was not far behind, his chest soaked in blood. The screams of the dying echoed through the forest.

“Undo this!” Aziraphale demanded even though he knew it could not be undone. “Repent!” he begged.

A low laugh pervaded all other sound and Aziraphale turned toward it. A man covered in black armor was sauntering toward him. He’d left his horse behind.

“Repent!” he imitated, his hands up and out to his sides. And then he turned serious. “Repent. That’s all you can think to say in the middle of all this? Where was their repentance?” The black soldier indicated toward the losing side.

“We fight on the side of God,” Aziraphale intoned heavily.

“Huh,” the black soldier returned. “So God enjoys Varus’ needlessly cruel crucifixions? Thinks subjugating thousands of people is just? Tell me, what exactly do the Romans have going in their favor...or is God just a rampant imperialist?”

Aziraphale bit his lower lip hard. “It is not for me to question God’s will. And it is certainly not yours!”

“Oh, but it is,” the black soldier drew near and discarded his helmet. Bright red hair cascaded down his shoulders and danced in the wind. Aziraphale noted his eyes and scowled.

“Demon,” he hissed.

“Funny thing that,” Crowley said lightly. “Demons fighting on the side of freedom from oppression? Angels fighting to help perpetuate a colonial agenda? I think we’ve got our sides switched round.”

Aziraphale stiffened under his armor. “You do not know the truth of all things,” he countered. “God’s plan is ineffable.”

Crowley collapsed on himself, his hands between his knees. He was positively keening with laughter. “Ineffable?” he squealed. He regained control of himself and thrust a finger toward the battle. “Does that look ineffable to you? People are dying, angel. Have you no pity?”

“I’m God’s soldier,” Aziraphale said hesitantly. “That’s what I am.”

“Fine,” Crowley replied, losing interest in the argument. “Come down here and try to smite me. Winner takes Germania.”

When Aziraphale dismounted Crowley took a few steps back, readying his sword. The demon’s blade was charred black with red veins pulsing through it, a weapon of Hell. Aziraphale drew his own sword and paced around the demon guardedly. Arminius looked on from the side watching them size each other up. It was difficult to say who had the upper hand.

Crowley spun his sword in his hand a few times, showing off. Aziraphale merely held his, not risking showmanship for readiness. In a flash the demon was on him, feigning left and right to gauge the angel’s movement and dexterity.

The angel darted forward and Crowley parried, but not fast enough to block Aziraphale’s riposte. The counterattack left a red line along the demon’s unused forearm. “I let you do that,” he sniffed. The angel did not reply.

They circled one another until Crowley sprang forward and chopped his sword down on his opponent’s. The sound of the two weapons rang out like a scream. Aziraphale stumbled back.

He recovered and dug his sandaled feet into the earth. It was then that the fight began in earnest.

From Arminius’ viewpoint it was a blur of untrackable movement, almost as if the pair were fighting on another plane of existence. Every once in a while he’d catch a brutal clash of swords or a sucker punch but it was hard to tell who was winning or losing. They seemed perfectly matched.

Arminius had seen the angel fight before and it was a fearsome thing to behold. Crowley was surely an extraordinary fighter to be able to compete on his level. Aziraphale must have recognized this and sought to gain an advantage. Using all his strength he pushed against Crowley’s sword and drove him over a tangling knot of tree roots, causing him to stumble. While his guard was down the angel lashed out in a draw cut but the demon bent over backwards in a move that defied human physics.

Crowley straightened up and pulled his sword with him, aiming at the angel’s calf. He caught the edge of his armor but didn’t make contact with skin. There hadn’t been enough momentum behind the movement. All the same, the demon was smiling.

“What?” Aziraphale demanded as they dove back into a series of fast parries.

“I know something you don’t know,” Crowley mocked. He swung hard and the two locked together, a battle of wills and strength ensuing.

“And what’s that foul fiend?” the angel sneered.

Crowley rolled his wrist and they were free of each other once more. “This is no mortal blade,” he teased. “One cut from my sword won’t discorporate you. It will tear your soul from its foundation. You’ll be on a one-way ride to the void. Nothing of you will remain.”

Aziraphale steeled himself, holding his sword close to his helmet. With a whispered prayer his sword burst into flame. Crowley stepped back and cursed. “Evening the odds,” the angel growled.

Arminius watched as the two supernatural beings moved into double time movements that were even less discernible than before. There was nothing to be seen but whirls of crackling fire and light. He shielded his eyes until he heard the telltale sound of a body hitting the ground. Aziraphale was disarmed.

Crowley chuckled as he sauntered up to the prone angel who was leaning back on his elbows.

“Well fought,” the demon congratulated. “But it appears Satan is victorious. Speak your name angel, let me know who I have vanquished.”

“Aziraphale,” the angel said proudly, despite his position. “Principality of the eastern gate. Guardian of the earthly realm. God’s hand and justice.”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley chewed on the name. “Such a pity. You fought bravely. I am Choronzon, well, Crowley as some would have it. I suppose I should let you have some final words or something.”

Aziraphale stiffened before sitting up and drawing off his helmet. His blonde hair caught the wind while his blue-grey eyes peered up at the demon. A single tear rolled down his rosy cheek. “I ask the Lord to forgive me in my failure,” he said softly.

Crowley blanched, his sword arm once raised high faltering. Aziraphale could only imagine this was the feign before the strike.

The angel pressed his pink lips together before letting out a calming breath. His eyes fluttered closed as he waited for the final blow. His head nodded in silent prayer.

Instead of feeling a sword cut into his neck, the angel heard the dull thud of steel on the forest floor. He opened his eyes and found the demon staring at him. His snaked-eyed pupils were dilated and blown. Crowley spoke brokenly in the language of angels, a rough version of Enochian tumbling from his lips. With a blink, the demon disappeared leaving everyone in attendance shocked and confused.

Aziraphale was exhausted and could only lie down on the ground, his limbs loose and useless. The words of the demon echoed in his brain. From what he could make out, Crowley had tried to express some feeling or sentiment that must have been a shocking revelation. The broken translation, as far as Aziraphale could tell was, ‘I didn’t know I had a heart to lose.’


	2. The angel lives

Hades (where time does not exist)

Lucifer was furious. Crowley could feel it in dark waves that pulsed through every hallway and chamber in Hell. He made the long march toward the throne room anyways, resigning himself to his fate.

Satan’s court was filled with candelabra, red wax glistening and dripping onto the floor like blood. A long red carpet led from the entrance to the tower of stairs that never seemed to end, but it did eventually at hoofed feet. Crowley leaned down to kiss both of them before shrinking back down four steps. His face smashed into the velvet carpet, breathing in the scent of acrid smoke and tar.

“Choronzon,” the voice was a sharp echo in his head. It ached. “The angel lives.”

Crowley bit his lip and nodded, still prostrated. “There were complications…” he managed.

A jarring vibration rocked the room and Crowley was shoved sideways. He felt searing pain pulse through every muscle and sinew in his body. He tasted blood in his mouth.

“I created you for one purpose and one purpose alone,” Lucifer whispered. “Failure is not an option. Unless you’ve disobeyed me on purpose?”

“Never!” Crowley growled. “I am your servant. Let me try again. I will not fail you.”

Lucifer titled his head. Crowley could barely look at the beast directly. It’s face was a cesspool of fear, death, and ugliness.

“You cannot fall from Hell, Choronzon,” Lucifer warned. “Imagine the alternative.”

A vision of pestilent flies, black holes, and screaming children filled his mind. Crowley cowered and sunk lower on the steps. “No, no,” he gasped. “I will not fail.”

He dug his nails into the carpet until it burned and with a flash he appeared on earth once more.

-

England, 1066

Aziraphale had witnessed the coronation, the first of its kind in Westminster Abbey. Edward the Confessor was dead. Long live Harold II. It was appropriate that an Englishman rather than a Norman take the throne, at least according to Heaven.

They knew this would upset Duke William II of Normandy, who claimed that Edward had promised him the throne, and indeed he had, but some others said (rumor has it) that upon his deathbed Edward chose his loyal advisor Harold instead. The conflict escalated all the way to God, the ultimate court, and the settlement dictated that Aziraphale carry out the ruling. But humans, being humans, didn’t always accede to divine law, and word traveled quickly when William began to build over seven hundred warships to mount an attack on the Anglo-Saxons.

Perhaps more interesting to the Principality was the driving force behind the offensive move, a sinister presence said to be whispering in the Duke’s ear, and ultimately, influencing the Church. (It may come as some surprise that the Church and Heaven could be at odds, but that was and is often the case. Human interpretation is often akin to a game of telephone, and She hasn’t been known to speak directly to earthly beings in millennia.) Aziraphale knew that his role was not only to support Harold, but to root out the wicked influence at hand. He had a sinking suspicion that said influence might be a demon he’d met some nine hundred years ago. To that end, he was set on traveling to Normandy.

-

Crowley was counting the days to the invasion. He’d engineered Satan’s will easily enough; power plays were to be expected during tumultuous times and all men looked to advance their station. Gaining the support of Franco-Norman nobles had been a piece of cake. You want a castle? We’ll build you a castle. You want a position at court? Sure, that can be arranged. Just give us your gold, your men, and your political sway, and we’ll get on with it.

None of this bothered the demon. What got under his skin was the fact that whatever agenda he endorsed could be thwarted by the angel.

Crowley settled back in his bed and envisioned the memory of Aziraphale for the millionth time. Bright eyes casting up under a swathe of white curls. The sweet curve of his lips even as they trembled. The seizure in the demon’s body that inevitably followed such a vision. Crowley had no other option at the time but return to Hell where he belonged. In the wake of purity and beauty as he’d never seen before - never imagined, Crowley knew Satan’s punishment was crucial. He had to be reminded of who he was in that moment of forgetting. He was a creature of the long night. The angel’s influence was divine, and therefore, a temptation of Heaven. Crowley should have known better, but in the moment he was distracted. This time, he wouldn’t fail. This time he would eradicate his adversary.  
-

Normandy, Two weeks later

When Aziraphale arrived in Normandy he caught wind of a Norweigan invasion in England, but it couldn’t be helped. Harold’s army would prove victorious anyways, despite the lack of angelic intervention, and Aziraphale was determined that he had bigger fish to fry. It was late April when he followed the scent of sulphur to its source.

Aziraphale used a simple miracle to gain access to William’s castle. He was a fruit vendor or a blacksmith...whatever the human guard wanted to see. He slipped inside and trailed his quarry to anterior quarters.

The angel found the space empty, which was even better than he’d hoped. He shut the heavy oak door behind him and surveyed the domain. The unlit candles of the compartment signaled its disuse, yet well-loved scrolls on the desk indicated frequent consultation. He assumed the demon’s yellow eyes were familiar with the dark.

Aziraphale laid in wait until the catch on the door signaled entry. He pounced on his unsuspecting victim and pinned him to the ground on his stomach, the angel victoriously settled over his back as he held his arms down.

“Aziraphale…” the demon muttered from his painful position. “How’ve you been?”

The angel was ruffled by the rather polite question.

“Crowley,” he returned. “I expect we can abbreviate courtesies and get to the point.”

“So you have missed me,” the demon said seductively. This caught the angel off guard and he made the mistake of loosening his grip on Crowley’s wrists. The demon immediately took advantage and grabbed the angel’s wrists in turn, rolling onto his back and butting the back of his head into Aziraphale’s nose. The angel cried out and Crowley moved to hold him down with one knee on his chest.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Aziraphale huffed. “Tell me what you’re doing here!”

Crowley simmered in the low boil of the moment and grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asked enticingly. His eyes were hypnotizing.

“Cease your wiles, demon! I’m not one to be trifled with!” He struggled uselessly against Crowley’s hold.

Crowley sulked. “And here I thought you’d be happy to see me. As I recall, I could have obliterated you during our last meeting. Or does that mean nothing to you?”

The angel narrowed his eyes and unfurled his great white wings. The force of it threw the demon from his body and into the stone wall behind. “Er...ouch,” Crowley moaned, his legs sprawling on the floor.

The angel stood nearby and assessed his adversary. “Perhaps I do owe you a debt of gratitude, though it has perplexed me.” His eyes drifted toward the demon’s in consternation. “You had me right where you wanted me. Why the hesitation?”

Crowley smiled slowly. “Maybe I didn’t have you right where I wanted you. Maybe I imagined having you in an entirely different way.”

Aziraphale did a double take and frowned. “Pardon me?” he ventured.

“Only if you’ll excuse my audacity,” the demon replied. His leg swept under the angel’s feet, driving him to the ground once more. Crowley was on him in sheer seconds muttering some kind of dark curse. The angel’s body went limp and numb.

Now that he was subdued Crowley took a relaxed seat over the angel’s hips. He lowered his head until their faces were inches apart. Crowley drew his fingers over the angel’s cheek and dipped down to the laces on the front of his tunic. He pulled at a string absentmindedly, revealing a few inches of the angel’s creamy white chest.

“What?” the angel objected. “What is this?”

Aziraphale was a being of God. As such, he possessed no gender nor had any use for one during his assignment on earth. But when the demon pressed a light kiss over his heart the angel learned something new about corporeal forms. Sometimes they manifested a response regardless of their owner’s intention. He discovered a sensation building between his legs and was stunned to realize that he’d projected an effort. Quickly he tried to fight of the sensation and gain control of himself once more.

Crowley didn’t seem to notice, but licked one finger which ignited a spark at the end of the digit. He pressed the glowing flame to where he’d kissed and Aziraphale felt dizzying pain surge through his body before it abated. A sigil appeared where the demon touched him.

“What have you done?” the blonde demanded, his eyes wide with fear.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’ve already spared you once, angel, but I can’t say I’ve extended my trust to you as of yet. This is just a bit of life insurance. A tiny demonic miracle that will keep you from killing me. Discorporate me, perhaps. But that blasted sword of yours won’t snuff out my being anytime soon. You won’t be able to use it on me.”

He stood and snapped his fingers, releasing the angel from his frozen state. Aziraphale jumped up immediately and fixed the demon with a spiteful stare.

“Tsk,” Crowley warned. “Not very becoming of an angel.”

“Stop playing games,” Aziraphale demanded. His pale face was flushed with embarrassment.

Crowley looked at him with interest and sprawled into the closest armchair. “So, what happened in Rome, after I left? I was curious how it all turned out.”

Aziraphale was surprised but still suspicious. He withdrew a few paces where he could watch the demon for any sudden moves. “If you must know… The Romans gave up any further forays into Germania. It was the beginning of the end for the empire. ...How long have you been gone?”

“Just got back,” Crowley revealed.

The news astonished the angel. “But so many terrible things have happened! Are you saying you’ve had no hand in them?”

“Humans really have a knack for inventing their own trouble,” the demon replied. “My role is more often to tip them over the edge.”

“And I suppose that’s what you’re doing now in Normandy?” Aziraphale huffed. “Why is Hell so interested in William?”

The demon shrugged. “Because Heaven is so interested in Harold?”

“That doesn’t make sense,” the angel complained.

“I never said it did,” Crowley said.

The two stared at one another for a moment, at an impasse.

“What happened to the boy, Arminius, I mean?” the demon asked.

“As if you care,” the angel sniffed, vanishing his downy wings.

“Rude,” Crowley stated. “What happened?”

“He was murdered by his own men. They thought he was becoming too powerful.”

Crowley’s face fell. “Fitting,” he muttered, but the sentiment didn’t match his dismal tone.

“Did you care for him?” Aziraphale asked, hardly believing it could be possible.

Crowley glared at the angel. “Of course not. I’m a demon. I don’t have a heart.”

In that moment, Aziraphale remembered what Crowley had said just before he vanished in the Teutoburg Forest. Between his inability to murder the angel and his obvious soft spot for Arminius, Aziraphale started to wonder if the demon truly did have a heart. A heart of irregular shape, obviously, but a heart nonetheless.

“If that’s true I suppose you might try to smite me again,” the angel said.

Crowley looked away, his eyes soft and distant. He looked like he was struggling with an internal battle. “You should go,” he said finally.

Aziraphale stood and realized his tunic was still undone. A tiny serpentine shape was inked into his flesh. His cheeks filled with color as he caught Crowley watching him and drew up the laces.

“I suppose we shall meet again on the field,” the angel supplied.

The demon nodded. He didn’t have the heart to say he’d give up seeing the angel forever if it meant that he would be safe. Protected from his own would-be assassin. It’s not like Crowley had forgotten his job duties, he was rather just...putting them off for the moment.

Aziraphale made his exit and Crowley eventually went to the window to stare outside. He was stunned to see a bright comet streaking overhead in the night sky. A portentous omen. Whether it bode glad or ill tidings remained to be seen.

-

Hastings, England, 13 October

Crowley tugged at the chainmail hauberk that kept wrapping around his knees as he walked...well...sauntered. It turns out hauberks weren’t really made for sauntering and it was terribly inconvenient for the demon to maintain his look. He gave up and walked like a normal person instead.

Scouts had reported Harold’s forces were marching south to meet them in battle, foiling the Englishman’s plans to surprise them the next day. Since they’d landed William had overseen the construction of a wooden castle and his defenses were all prepared. They only had to wait now.

Crowley’s thoughts turned to the angel as they often did. He wondered if Aziraphale would lead the infantry. Perhaps he’d get the chance to see him in all his glory before the fighting began. The demon rubbed at his lips, still tasting the sweet divinity of the angel’s skin. The sigil he’d left was indeed a type of insurance, but not the kind that Crowley had described. In truth, it would do nothing to protect him from the angel’s wrath. That was purely psychological, a trick to keep Aziraphale from using the flaming sword against him. Instead, the sigil warded off harm from the angel himself. As long as he was marked, no man could hurt him. In truth too it mattered little where the sigil was, but Crowley had chosen to place his lips over the angel’s heart. It was that heart which called to him, made him forget his demonic nature all over again. His kiss was in thanksgiving over practicality.

Crowley wanted to kick himself for acting so rashly, but the idea of spending time on this infernal earth without the cherubic blonde was more painful than Satan’s wrath. He constantly plotted to keep his angel while holding the devil at bay. It was his attempt at a zero sum game.

-

At dawn the battle began and raged throughout the day. Harold’s men had moved in using a shield wall, densely organized and wary. William instead divided his forces into three with cavalry in reserve until the archers and infantry broke Harold’s lines. His hopes were dashed however, when his soldiers failed to breach the English defense. A hasty retreat began until Crowley entered the field.

“Duke!” he cried out to William. “The men are fleeing! They think you are dead! Rally! Rally them now!”

William rode out with raised sword, his long red cape flying behind him. The men turned in awe and moved to follow, mounting a counterattack on the English. Crowley ran swiftly after. In the haze of frenzied bodies he could see the angel further up the hill with his brethren. The sun was glinting off his sword and armor. Crowley had little desire to engage him as it could mean a fight, but it was also more quality time for the pair. He smiled as he urged his black horse across the battlefield. He appeared by the angel’s side just as Aziraphale was cracking the butt end of his sword against a Norman’s helmet sending him to sleep.

“Hey Aziraphale!” the demon said with a grin.

The angel whirled around and raised his sword high, but quickly noticed that Crowley had made no move to assail him. “I don’t really have time for a chat just now,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Oh come on,” Crowley replied, kicking an Englishman in the chin as he’d been charging toward the demon. The man fell on his face and crawled away. “You see the look of things! William’s winning the day. Your side’s about to go pear-shaped.”

“Willing to put a wager on it?” the angel dared. He shifted to his right and swung at an enemy spear, effectively crippling the weapon.

“Ha!” Crowley gasped. “I’d wager you’ve got ‘til nightfall at best. But odds aside, what do you want if you win?”

Aziraphale considered before replying. “1,000 years of peace,” he declared.

The demon blanched. That meant he’d have to wait ten centuries before seeing his angel again. It was completely unacceptable. He jumped off of his horse and killed three English soldiers in succession. Aziraphale’s eyes went wide.

“Fine,” Crowley grunted as he cleaned his sword on one of the fallen men’s tunic. “But if I win…”

“What?” Aziraphale spat.

“You’ll have dinner with me. Full dark’s at 6:30, give or take. That should do.” The demon leapt ably to his mount and turned it away. “Oh and Aziraphale?”

The angel blinked, hardly recovered from his shock.

“Wear something nice.”

-

In the end, Harold fell. William’s superior experience along with Harold’s lack of cavalry contributed greatly. While the Battle of Hastings would prove to have a long-lasting impact on the fate of England it mattered less to a certain demon who only had eyes for the slightly huffy angel beside him. They’d found a tavern some miles away from the chaos of war and were currently nursing mead while waiting for their meat pies.

Crowley was trying very hard not to gloat. “What a battle!” he crowed. “The English line was truly impressive.”

Aziraphale grunted.

“Too bad Harold missed his chance with our initial retreat. He could have whacked us if he’d had the presence of mind.”

The angel sniffed.

Growing impatient with the one-sided conversation Crowley clasped his hand over Aziraphale’s forearm and squeezed. “Come on. It’s not so bad.”

The angel eyed the demon’s hand as if to remove it but let it lie. “Easy for you to say,” he pouted. “You keep winning.”

Crowley leaned back in his seat and sipped his drink. “Not so much that I keep winning as I keep picking the winning side,” he replied, his fingers massaging the angel’s arm.

Aziraphale batted his hand away and crossed his arms. “Whatever.” Crowley looked decidedly at the ceiling.

The tavern keeper’s wife came over to plop their food down on the table. “Buck up lads,” she said. “Still in the land of the living, you know. You could be one of them poor souls out there. Heard it was a hell of a battle.”

“It was,” Aziraphale replied. “I suppose you’re right, madam.”

She grinned and walked away, leaving Crowley an advantageous opening.

“The food here is supposed to be marvelous,” he said lightly. The angel looked at his pie with a puzzled expression on his face.

“You have...eaten before,” the demon probed. Aziraphale shook his head. Crowley took the initiative by digging his fork into the blonde’s dish. He scooped out a generous bite and held it up to the angel’s mouth. “Go on.”

Aziraphale took the offering and chewed thoughtfully before rolling his eyes up to heaven and closing them tightly. He looked positively transported. A smile tugged at the demon’s lips even as a tight ball of light formed in his stomach. He repeated his previous gesture and gave the angel another forkload of pie. This time the angel actually wiggled in his seat.

“Mmmm,” he breathed out luxuriously. The ball of light stoked into a delicious heat that throbbed through the demon’s groin. Aziraphale half-opened his eyes and gazed appreciatively at Crowley. “What this called again?” he asked.

“Ngk,” the demon replied. Aziraphale picked up his own fork and began to feed himself, savoring every bite. Crowley didn’t speak until the blonde scraped his plate clean, humming and moaning all the while.

“So what’s next for you, angel?” he finally asked. The blonde shrugged as he patted his lips with a clean cloth. “Wherever I’m told, I suppose. Same for you?”

Crowley laughed. “Yeah. It’s not like we have much choice in the matter. Too bad really. I’d love to spend more time in London. William was talking about building a tower there that sounded quite grand.”

“I quite like London,” Aziraphale agreed. “Perhaps one day I’ll take you there...if you don’t make it by on your own.” His cheeks blushed prettily.

“I suppose we’ll have to go our separate ways until then,” the demon groused. He stood up and downed his drink.

The angel stirred. “But you haven’t touched your food!” he complained.

“Lost my appetite,” Crowley supplied. “You take it. Shouldn’t let it go to waste.”

The angel happily tucked in as Crowley walked off, but turned to watch him go. An odd feeling permeated his being, one that didn’t make sense. It was almost like he missed Crowley, even though he was still technically in sight. With a sigh, he refocused on the food and picked at it listlessly.


	3. A braver man than I

Orléans, France 29 April, 1429

Crowley sat on a turret and watched the procession below. The Maiden (known to the locals as La Pucelle) was at the front, a wisp of a thing but very severe in her bearing. She waved a large banner over her cropped blonde head, eliciting cheers from the denizens of the besieged French city.

The demon scanned through the unwieldy crowd jammed into narrow streets, but it was easy enough to spot his angel. Aziraphale was decked out in engraved plate armor, riding just a few paces behind Joan. Crowley watched him veer off to the side away from the growing masses. He was tying up his pristine white horse when Crowley jumped down, landing as softly as a cat beside him.

“Oh my,” the angel gasped in surprise. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Same as everyone else,” Crowley conceded. “Came to see her.” He stood on his tiptoes and gazed after the girl who grew smaller as she retreated into the distance.

“Hm,” Aziraphale intoned disapprovingly.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Jealous? Thought I’d come all this way to see you instead?”

The angel shook his head and pursed his lips. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Crowley leaned on the wooden gate as Aziraphale took off his mount’s saddle and brushed her down thoroughly. When he reached her stomach Crowley’s face popped around on the other side between the horse’s legs. “Don’t worry, I’m not after your saint,” he enunciated the last word mockingly.

“Oh good,” Aziraphale stated sarcastically. “I don’t have to fear for the defenseless teenage girl.”

“Aha!” Crowley jeered back. “So you admit she’s a mere human with delusions of God in her head.”

The angel rolled his eyes. “Very astute, inquisitor. Heaven has larger need of symbolism at the moment. Much more effective than driving humans mad with authentic holy visions.”

“I’m sorry to have missed that era,” Crowley mused. He stood to pet the horse’s head and she snorted approvingly. “So Heaven ditched England after all. God is so mercurial.”

For once, Aziraphale did not censor him but let a tiny smile show on his lips. “Out with the old and in with the new,” he said under his breath. Crowley tried not to reveal his scandalized delight.

“Joan of Arc,” the demon said, trying it on for size. “Let me guess. She’s the icon-politician here to breed patriotism and hope, handing out food and blessings and...wait. Isn’t that your job?”

The angel did scowl at him that time. Crowley noticed his cheeks were positively burning. “There’s more to this story,” the demon sniffed out. “You must tell me.”

Aziraphale finished brushing the mare and rolled his eyes to heaven. “It was the prophecy,” he grumbled. “Archangel Michael had been sowing the seeds in the minds of the peasants for a savior figure throughout the Hundred Years War. Thing is, his French was atrocious.”

Crowley waited eagerly, his eyes flashing.

The angel sighed. “He used ‘jeune fille’ rather than ‘homme,’ he said at last. Crowley fell to the ground in spasms of laughter.

“Wait,” the demon choked. “You’re telling me that the new recruit is here on account of a mistranslation? Oh, angel!”

Aziraphale was already stalking off but Crowley found him down the street through a quick demonic miracle. “You’d make a very pretty girl,” he added as he fell into step beside the angel, hardly containing his mirth.

“Hmph,” the angel pouted. “It’s the Lord’s will, I suppose. It’s…”

“Don’t say ineffable,” Crowley warned. “It’s a holy cock up and you know it. Just let me enjoy it.”

Aziraphale knew it was useless to argue but he rounded on the redhead with resolute haughtiness. “Now see here…”

He couldn’t continue his sentence because Crowley dragged him into the adjacent alleyway, shoving him against the wall. The angel tried to speak but the demon’s hand was bracing against his mouth.

“Shut up,” Crowley spat. His head darted around the corner and returned with fresh panic in his eyes. He scanned the alley quickly and made for the closest door, pulling the angel after him.

“What?!!” an outraged angel protested as the wooden door shut firmly behind them. They were in a tiny room, at best, a storage closet.

“Shh!” Crowley hissed, his eyes pleading. He was peering through a crack in the wooden slats and waiting for something outside of the door. The demon slowly withdrew his fingers from the angel’s face and found his shoulder instead, squeezing tightly. Aziraphale watched as Crowley closed his eyes, seemingly counting down in his head.

Aziraphale could make out muffled voices coming from the other side of the door.

“I thought he went this way,” a gruff male voice whispered.

“Couldn’t have gone far. C’mon, let’s check the next alleyway. We’ve got work to do,” a female voice replied.

Aziraphale waited until their footsteps receded. It was hot and cramped in the closet. He and the demon were crushed against one another, spare breaths rising between them. At last the angel could stand no more.

“Care to explain that?” he asked in his most holier-than-thou tone.

Crowley’s eyes met his and Aziraphale realized they were inches apart. When the demon spoke he could feel his breath on his face. “Hastur,” he groused. “And Beelzebub. The King in Yellow and the High Lord. Both set on my heels to make sure I succeed this time.”

“Succeed in what?” The angel’s eyes were wide and innocent. Crowley couldn’t help but lick his lips.

“You know what I am,” he tried to snarl but it came out weakly. “You know my purpose here.”

“To...sow discord?” the angel tried.

Crowley sagged into the wall behind him and ran a hand through his bright red hair. A scent lifted from the motion, one that Aziraphale had come to associate with the demon. Cloves and ambrosia, of all things. He breathed it in greedily. How could someone evil smell so good?

“Angel,” Crowley swallowed hard. “Lucifer created me from a grand design. Your name and deeds are well recorded. You’ve caused more than a few headaches below, enough to necessitate a counterpoint.”

Aziraphale tried to catch up but was failing. “I...don’t think I understand.”

“Oh of course not,” Crowley hissed angrily. “What would Heaven know of Satan’s ploys? How would you even begin to comprehend? Angel, I’m no mere demon. I’m an abomination. I was molded and cast for one purpose only. To destroy you.”

The angel hesitated before bursting out of the cramped space, his body spinning as he whirled on his foe. “You…” he accused. “This whole time I thought...but no. It’s all been a temptation. A way to wind me up and get me close so you could...so you could…”

“Temptation?” Now Crowley was lost but he recovered quickly. “Can you deny I’ve spared your life more than once?” His hands dug into Aziraphale’s armored hips and drove him against the wall, pinning him as if to press his point. The angel looked confused. “Why would I hide you away from your enemies if I meant to annihilate you? Wouldn’t it be easier to throw you to the wolves?”

Crowley backed up, releasing his hold. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to do or say. He stared at the demon as if to find the answer.

“I can’t explain now,” the demon huffed, “But I will find you later. Promise me you’ll find your quarters and remain there until I come back. I can’t risk…” he broke off. “Promise me?”

Aziraphale shook his head as if to disagree but finally relented. “I swear it.”

The demon nodded and snapped his fingers. He disappeared, black smoke swirling in his absence.

-

Hastur and Beelzebub regarded the scroll with distaste. “The girl demands WE withdraw?” the Lord of Flies scoffed. Crowley was sprawled over a chair in the corner facing the window. He looked out as if keeping watch but he was bored stiff. He’d never been much of a team player.

Hastur threw the dismissed words into the fireplace and watched them burn. “We’ll have her soon enough,” he drawled. “But I’m curious what the false angel has to say.”

Crowley rolled his eyes to himself before jumping from his seat and slamming his fist on the table where Hastur had been lounging. The former skirted back and nearly turned over his chair in an attempt to clear the way.

“Witch,” Crowley whispered. “One simple word and Joan of Arc will be damned. Spread the accusation near and far. Heap aspersions on her character. The Inquisition will take care of the rest. Really Hastur, you bore me. And you!” He rounded on Beelzebub. “Ekron, Baal, Lord of the Flyers...Hell’s turned you soft and half-witted. You know nothing of how things are done on the earthly plane. And He sent you both to shepherd me. The temerity...”

Hastur was afraid but Beelzebub was unmoved. “As long as the angel exists you are a failure,” she reminded. “Show us progress and we will relent. Until then, we will haunt your footfalls.”

Crowley knit his fingers together and sat with them at the large oak table. “You forget yourself,” he intoned. “Remind me how close you came before me? I had the angel on his back, disarmed. You never made it a mile before he discorporated you. Both of you.”

The redhead stood and paced the room. “If it was a simple task it would be done. The last thing I need is interference when I’m in the middle of an operation. Go to Hell and tell Him that the necessary steps are being taken. I can’t work with distractions amongst everything else. If I’m not victorious within a fortnight then by all means return. Flay me, for all I care.”

He returned to the table and pointed his outstretched hands toward each of the demons.. “For now, get thee from my sight!” With a snap of his fingers the interlopers were gone, banished from the realm of men. Crowley crumpled to the floor in relief.

-

Aziraphale spent the next few days in tête-à-tête with Joan and/or the French command, often at odds. Eventually the city’s defender Jean de Dunois rode out to procure and send back reinforcements. In the interim Joan was furious to learn de Dunois was mounting an attack on an outlying French fortress without her. Aziraphale tried to deter her interference but she rode out to join the fight before it could be prevented. Despite his promise to Crowley, the angel left Orléans on Joan’s heels.

Luckily the French were successful, but where Aziraphale had hoped to reign Joan in she only saw more opportunity. Within a few days she rallied the troops south where they nearly met their end. The English drew from unexpected reinforcements that cut her men off and resulted in a hasty retreat. Aziraphale was shocked to hear the English taunting Joan, calling her ‘witch’ and other foul names. The angel prayed and blessed Joan with the courage to rebound. She strode forward with banner in hand and her voice loud enough to shake the heavens. “Au Nom De Dieu!” she cried, amplified by the angel. Her troops returned half-flight and in the end, overtook the English troops. At the end of the day, Aziraphale all but melted into the ground, exhausted to his core.

The angel found respite when they returned to Orléans, but only temporarily. He’d just flung himself bodily onto his bed when he felt a crushing weight pin him against the mattress.

“Where the Hell have you been?” Crowley snarled.

Aziraphale flailed but didn’t have the strength to fight off his aggressor. It was just the demon anyways, so he relaxed and flung an arm over his face.

“Mm sorry,” he managed. “Joan ran off and if I hadn’t been there it all would have gone to...oh, you know where.”

Crowley relented and lay back on the bed. “Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through the last two days? First I had to dispel my unholy colleagues which was no mean feat, then come to find that you’ve defied my only request, and you promised!” His voice pitched up at the last and he shrank back in embarrassment. He sounded like a petulant child.

Aziraphale exhaled heavily and turned on his side to confront the demon. “I know,” he croaked wearily. “I know. Couldn’t be helped.”

The demon caught his breath when he stared at the angel. He was the picture of virtuous exhaustion. The sight unknotted the indignant anxiety that had built over the last several hours. He wanted to touch Aziraphale’s soft curls. “I thought for a moment…” Crowley started. “No. You’re here. You’re safe. That’s the only thing that matters.”

The angel stirred, fixing his gaze on the demon. “You...care? About me? I don’t understand. You’re meant to destroy me yet I feel no fear. Why is that?”

The redhead stared up at the ceiling. “Lucifer is clever. So clever and yet so stupid.”

Azirphale sat up and looked down at Crowley, his expression equal to his shock. The demon rambled on. 

“He wanted to find a way to vanquish you once and for all. There’s an old saying that one can ‘fight fire with fire.’ I guess that’s where He got the idea. He could have employed a fallen angel, but that plan had failed before. Instead, He cast about into the Abyss like a naive alchemist until He found me, a spark full of all possible forms yet empty of being. He grew in me, malignant, and so adopted me from Chaos after His own image. What He didn’t realize was that Chaos is not evil. It’s neither this nor that. Neti neti - the Vedics proclaimed, and got it right. Yes, Chaos can be consumed with evil, but it can also be consumed with...other thoughts and feelings.”

Crowley stopped speaking for a moment and the angel soaked it in, trying to understand these heavy concepts. Angels weren’t used to questioning higher powers or disputing the unknown, but at least Aziraphale had a head start on such matters. He’d found himself with more questions than answers as of late.

“I’m not a demon, though I am demonic,” Crowley continued. “I’m neither good nor evil, though I’m an amalgam of the two. I am disorder and sequence. Satan summoned me, I can’t deny that. But I longed to understand myself outside of Him from the beginning. I know it sounds improbable but...in spite of all my searching, I knew myself when I first looked at you. There was no doubt in my mind.”

The angel was still and quiet. What possible response could he offer? It was insanity at best, yet where his mind faltered his human instincts responded. Aziraphale leaned forward, pressing his chest to Crowley’s and hesitating on the brink.

“Crowley I…” was all he could muster because language failed him. He stumbled and pressed his lips to the demon’s mouth. The attempt was accurate and chaste, but it didn’t take a heart’s beat for Crowley to respond, teaching the angel what a kiss was meant to be. It wasn’t a touch for the sake of contact. A kiss should ebb and throb. It should begin with an upward lip that chased the lower one. It should deepen with tongues and soul deep gasps. Aziraphale learned these things and rapidly adapted, wanting to outpace the feeling driving him to a frenzy. To his consternation, the demon leaned away at long last.

“Why did you do that?” Crowley whispered.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale answered, also whispering. “Do I need a reason?”

“I could give you a million reasons not to,” Crowley countered, his voice gaining strength.

The angel took this into consideration but summarily rejected it. “Well, you’re not a demon. Not really. I don’t know much if anything about the Chaos realm you described, but it isn’t of Hell’s making, nor Heaven’s. And I don’t think love can be a sin.”

Crowley jumped up as if the bed had caught fire. “L-?” he choked. He couldn’t finish the word. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. This isn’t...that’s not what’s happening here. It’s lust plain and simple. Your corporeal form is responding to a stimuli. Those feelings,” he shuddered. “Whatever it is that you think you feel you don’t.”

“I don’t understand why you’re acting like this,” Aziraphale tried to sound rational but his voice broke. “You just said that when you looked at me you knew…”

“I didn’t know what I was talking about. I wasn’t making any sense. I’m just…I’m exhausted. Lucifer’s spies are bent around every corner and it’s looking more and more like the French are about to prevail. Not to mention you’re still alive! When my lot comes for me they won’t leave a rude note. I’ll be ripped into shreds and snuffed out entirely. And I told them…” Crowley finally drew in a ragged breath. He knelt on the bed with his arms limp at his sides.

“What did you tell them?” the angel asked. He moved forward to mirror Crowley’s position.

“I told them I’d destroy you. I asked for just a few spare weeks to fulfill my task. It’s you or me angel.”

Aziraphale shook his head as if he could fix the situation on doubt alone. He moved to take Crowley’s hand but the redhead jerked away.

“I have to go,” he muttered. “The war council meets tonight and they need my input.” He couldn’t look the angel in the eye, so instead he snapped his fingers and disappeared. Aziraphale hugged a pillow and bit back tears. Was there no mercy in Heaven?

-

Crowley’s advice did little and less when the French carried the day during the last battle. The siege was effectively ended and although several conflicts would arise in the aftermath France would ultimately keep their independence. For her part, Joan continued to fight until taken prisoner by the Burgundians, allies of the English. Held initially on heresy, the specious charges were exchanged for an offense of cross-dressing.

Crowley had been recalled to Hell and tortured for two earthly years before he was summarily returned to Rouen to watch the brutish justice done at Vieux-Marché. Joan was tied to a pillar while men lit the pyre beneath her. For Crowley, it was worse than the traumatic punishments Lucifer had inflicted upon his own body. The innocent girl’s body was burnt twice over to ensure no relics remained, and Crowley stood witness to it all.

Afterward, he found himself standing by her loathsome executioner. He turned to Crowley with haunted eyes. “I am damned,” the man said, “For I have burnt a holy woman.” Crowley’s upper lip twitched with barely suppressed rage. “You have,” he trembled. “And you are.”

From afar Crowley caught the glimmer of an angelic aura and knew Aziraphale had seen the unfolding carnage. Though apart he felt them standing side by side and longed to entwine his hand in the angel’s. Instead, he went back to Hell where he belonged.

-

Lucifer sent him back to earth many times over the next three hundred years. Crowley was never quite the same after Joan’s execution, and eagerly embraced the opportunity to deal out pain and disaster at every turn. Although he avoided seeing the angel all the while, he often sensed that holy presence held at bay. Perhaps Aziraphale knew better than to intercede during these dark times. Crowley was in no mood to speak, let alone carry out the orders that still loomed over his head. Instead, Crowley enacted crueler and more twisted acts than ever before to please Satan better. He even believed that Lucifer might forget his foremost desire if Crowley could spread enough havoc and evil. And what was a few million souls in trade for Aziraphale’s continued existence?

In 1532 at Cajamarca Crowley helped the Spanish ambush the unarmed Incan ruler, massacring thousands. During the 17th century he oversaw the General Crisis, a series of events that included population decline, mass famine, and multiple invasions on Poland. His fever cooling, he invented dentistry sans anesthesia in the early 18th century. He threw in extreme poverty during the Georgian era for good measure. In time he started to think that maybe he’d done enough. Maybe he’d created a substantial cover to finally see his angel at last. Certainly the Dark Lord could never suspect...the question was, was Crowley brave enough to face Aziraphale after what had happened between them? Surely the angel deeply resented him. Maybe even hated him. He sighed into his empty whiskey bottle. Perhaps he’d give it a go next century.

Northeastern France, March 1815

Napoleon had a wicked sense of humor. Crowley admired watching his military prowess and confident leadership, but listening to the Emperor wisecracking over a game of chess was infinitely more enjoyable. Napoleon had just come back into power (with a little help from Crowley) and was in the process of mobilizing his armies to take on the Prussian and British forces, but first, a game to clear his mind.

Crowley stared at the board, knowing he had no options left. The next move would lead him to his third loss in a row. The Emperor’s skills were renowned, but he was a gracious winner. Of course, Crowley figured that came naturally when victory was all but guaranteed. He considered using a demonic miracle to cheat, but changed his mind at the last. He barely moved his knight when Napoleon took his queen, giggling with pleasure.

“You win again,” the redhead grumbled.

The Emperor shrugged his shoulders. “You didn’t want it enough,” he replied. “Play without risking anything and the game is already over. You have nothing to lose so you do not fight.”

A small smile played over Crowley’s lips. “Sometimes you have so much to lose that you can’t fight.”

Napoleon slapped Crowley’s bicep and stood to gaze at the fireplace. “Never have I heard such nonsense,” he replied. “Tell me...what do you desire? You fight at my side and give me council yet you’ve never ask for anything. What compels you? What do you dream of Crowley?”

The redhead could never express those desires aloud, so he named the larger grief that immobilized him. “Freedom,” he said easily. “But not the kind that war or peace affords.”

“The kind you give yourself?” the Emperor asked knowingly.

“That,” Crowley acknowledged. “And the will to act on what you want. Nothing you’re familiar with I fathom.”

“Ha,” Napoleon coughed out. “All I am is want. As soon as I seize my target I want another. The aching restless desire of the victor. And it is never quenched. But you, I venture, would slake your thirst with one drink. You are a man with narrow aims.”

It wasn’t meant as a compliment or an insult. It was merely true. Crowley nodded in assent.

“Whatever the consequences I urge you on, but you know that,” Napoleon mused. “I have only one suggestion. Do it now. Take what you want while you still draw breath. Don’t wait until the last and shudder out regrets in death.”

Crowley smiles ruefully. “You’re a braver man than I.”

Napoleon frowned. “I am not. I am smarter.” He laughed wholeheartedly and Crowley joined him.

-  
Belgium, 16 June

Aziraphale stood with the Duke of Wellington at Quatre Bras. Their intent had been to move southeast toward their Prussian allies, but Napoleon had already encountered those troops at the Battle of Ligny with intents of reducing their forces before they could be combined. The Prussians were summarily defeated, causing Wellington to retreat with over 8,000 men lost. The French were in pursuit. All rode toward Waterloo.

Upon the next night, the angel lay restless in his tent. Thousands of battle scenarios were streaming through his head. With each calculation more complications arose. Rain poured in torrents outside and dropped the temperature though no breeze moved through his lodgings. He tossed and turned until frustration and humidity beat all else. He tossed his offending nightshirt to the ground and breathed more easily.

Aziraphale glanced down and watched his human form move air in and out of his lungs reflexively. It was a pretension, an act of animation like eating or drinking or… His hand grazed over his chest and drifted lower, settling on his stomach. All these organs and functions should be easily dismissed by an angel. Yet one primal calling could overpower all. He saw the sigil burnt over his heart and pressed his lips together. The thought of Crowley’s heated kiss there had left a mark both spiritually and physically. Their first kiss even more so. Their only kiss. Aziraphale longed for more, and his body responded. The angel had no idea how to stem the tide of need and flipped over onto his stomach as if to deny the feeling, but it only grew when his engorged cock stuttered against the rough sheets. It was so easy to lift his hips and grind down, relieving the tension just a little.

His breath caught and he fisted the fabric, pulling until he was straining. “Oh…” he prayed aloud. “Oh, please…”

“Angel,” a shuddering voice arrested him.

Aziraphale cast a surprised and concerned glance toward the baritone sound. “Crowley?” he ventured, both hope and desire coursing through his frame.

The demonic entity was crouched on the floor near the tent’s entrance. He stood slowly. “What…” he said tensely. “What are you…” Crowley couldn’t finish his sentence.

It had been so long. Too long. Hundreds of years and Aziraphale had counted minutes and hours and days for this to be anything less than a momentous revelation. The angel was possessed with sinless confidence and want. He rolled onto his back and supported himself on his elbows, body bared and exposed to Crowley’s roaming eyes.

“Ah, uh,” Crowley murmured, embarrassed and uncertain. His hands wrenched at the copious fabric surrounding him as if to disappear.

“Please,” Aziraphale pleaded. “Don’t deny me. I have longed for you. Will you not come to me?”

Crowley stuttered forward like a man walking toward the noose. His movements were wooden and fearful. He knew what he was approaching, ultimately. It was a choice, or no...an inevitable end, perhaps his own. It was liberation.

Crowley stood warily by the bed and Aziraphale drew him down to lay side by side. “Why do you hide from me?” the angel supplicated. “Don’t you know that you are mine and I am yours? Yet you refuse me…You went away.”

Crowley’s eyes swept over the angel’s soft body. He was all curves and tufts of white-blonde curls. Everything he’d ever wanted and open-armed, drawing the redhead in. Crowley tucked his head into the nook where Aziraphale’s neck met his shoulder and breathed in the scent of him.

“Couldn’t be helped,” was the best that he could do.

Aziraphale’s hands roamed over Crowley’s back and moved to his chest, where he found a clasp that cinched the cloak’s fabric closed. With a deft movement it was open. Aziraphale nuzzled into Crowley’s hair and pulled the soaking garment off of him. Underneath, he wore a tight black waistcoat over a fluttery white shirt. His fall front trousers were maroon, an unusual color for the times, but then France was always fashion forward. The angel pulled him bodily until they were aligned.

Aziraphale sighed when his naked flesh met the sinuous lines of Crowley’s clothed chest and hips. “Tell me that you want this,” the angel whispered.

Crowley’s lips were ghosting over Aziraphale’s jawline and earlobe. “I don’t deserve you,” he cried. Tears were spilling down his cheeks. “The things I’ve done…”

Aziraphale pushed his hips up and found Crowley hard and wanting, the feeling was exquisite. “What you’ve done,” the angel echoed. “What I’ve done. Everything we’ve done to satisfy anyone other than ourselves. But not this night. This is just for us. Tell me that you love me, Crowley.”

The demonic being gasped as Aziraphale moved against him once more. His sight was blurring at the edges. The remnants of his control were starting to slip.

“I…” Crowley tried. “Angel, I…” He looked into Aziraphale’s eyes and it was like the first time all over again. A beauty that outshone Heaven and all of Her creations. And it all belonged to him. “I love you, angel,” Crowley asserted, his voice cracking. “I love you with all my broken, twisted heart. You and no other. Forever.”

Their lips found one another’s and burned.


	4. When I wake up, I am reborn

Crowley’s fingers sank into the soft thatch of curls that surrounded Aziraphale’s sex. He stroked all around the angel’s thick erection and delighted in the soft moans that he elicited. Their mouths were locked on to each other’s, tongues stroking adamantly in turn.

Crowley was on fire. Aziraphale was Heaven-sent and it manifested into a spicy taste on his skin and lips. It was everything he’d wanted since the first day he gazed upon the angel. It was everything he wasn’t supposed to have.

Aziraphale helped Crowley disrobe and their nude bodies met each other at last. Crowley rolled on top of the angel and pinned his arms, kissing down his neck and chest until he reached the sigil. His tongue flicked out to lathe over the spot before moving to his nipple.

Aziraphale gasped and twisted under him, begging for whatever came next. The redhead sank lower and lower, finding all of the secret spots that made the angel vocalize his approval. At last he came to the hard length beckoning upwards and took it reverently into his mouth. The angel sank in and out of the wet heat while his hands moved down to intertwine in Crowley’s long locks.

“Oh, Crowley,” he moaned hungrily. It was the same sound the angel had made when eating for the first time. Crowley mouth completely enveloped Aziraphale’s cock and swallowed in response. The angel jerked in pleasure, rocking his hips to the rhythm Crowley meted out.

Outside, the rain pelted harder than ever before, the sound of the storm matching their fervor. Lightning sent white flashes across the tent walls.

Crowley could feel the urgency rising from the angel’s body the longer he went on. He withdrew, wanting to make the night last as long as possible. Aziraphale protested when he lost Crowley’s mouth but eagerly reversed their positions to return the favor. The angel was less reserved in his approach; teasing wasn’t in his repertoire.

Instead he venerated. His fingers curled around the redhead’s long shaft and stroked deftly. The angel’s eyes blazed and he licked his lips as Crowley responded. In a flash Aziraphale descended and pulled Crowley’s hardness into his mouth.

“Oh fuck there’s a God in Heaven,” Crowley groaned, his hips jerking as the angel sucked harder. It was as if all the torture he’d endured in Hell was being washed away by Aziraphale’s tongue and hands. Indeed, there was a healing grace at work, and it transmitted through the angel unconsciously.

Crowley looked down to watch Aziraphale who had taken on a glowing white aura. A bright light was emanating around his head like a halo. Crowley gasped and rutted as the angel pulled off him only to sink back again, over and over. He was surprised when, Aziraphale moved his tongue down to lap at the redhead’s tight sac, his hand still working feverishly on his erection. The angel spread Crowley’s legs apart and glided his tongue over and under his balls.

“Aziraphale!” Crowely shouted in surprise. The feeling was indescribable. When he was thoroughly wet, the angel positioned himself at Crowley’s entrance. The look on his face was incandescent when he finally pushed in.

The redhead groaned in between gentle thrusts that quickly turned desperate. Aziraphale grasped Crowley’s thighs and drew him up so that he mounted the angel’s lap. With divine strength, Aziraphale bucked up into Crowley who held tightly to the angel’s strong biceps, riding him with abandon.

A sudden gust of wind threw one of the tent flaps up and in, showering them with horizontal bands of rain. The angel just moved faster, lapping at Crowley’s chest which shimmered in spare droplets blowing in from outside.

“Oh angel!” Crowley stuttered, unable to stave off his oncoming orgasm. Aziraphale grasped the redhead’s cock and pumped it in time to their movements, urging them both over the edge in time. Aziraphale thrust one last time and closed his eyes as he rode out the intense sensation of completion. Crowley followed immediately after, and they reveled in the shared intimate experience by refusing to let go of one another for several minutes.

In time, they laid down at last on the bed. Crowley snapped his fingers and the tent wall restored itself.

“I had no idea you had that in you,” the demonic entity purred. “Aren’t angels supposed to be chaste?”

Aziraphale looked absolutely nonplussed. “Not with you,” he confessed. “I’ve often dreamed of us together like this, but I never thought it could actually happen.”

Crowley stirred and rolled onto his side to get a better look at the angel. His perfect curls were wet and rumpled. His ivory skin mottled with the red blush of exercise. Crowley’s eyes trailed lower and admired the angel’s member, now spent and resting on his strong thigh. He was more beautiful than anything he could imagine. It was in that moment he started to realize how complicated their union really was. There was no way it could last. He sank back down and fretted silently.

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale asked. He could read Crowley like a book.

“There’s just no getting past it,” Crowley complained. “Lucifer wants you dead and He wants me to do it. I can’t figure out how to put Him off. I tried enacting the most sinister deeds I could muster for a few centuries, but ultimately, He’s not going to just let me go. Not without a fight. And if He found out about this?” Crowley trembled.

Aziraphale wrapped him in his arms and kissed his auburn head. “What happened to you...after the war?” He didn’t need to clarify which one he spoke of.

Crowley shut his eyes tightly. “Lucifer pulled me down. His minions tortured me until I thought I would go mad. The things they did...I won’t speak of it. But believe me when I say that Satan is the last entity you want to disappoint.”

The angel gripped him harder in his arms. “I had no idea.”

“He got used to the idea eventually,” Crowley continued. “I explained that you were too strong. Made up a thousand different stories about times we fought and how I failed again and again. That’s when I started doing more demonic works to keep His attention off of you. But I know it’s not going to work forever. How could I possibly explain to Him that instead of fulfilling my purpose to destroy you I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with you instead? On the first day, actually. And I can’t imagine your lot being any happier with the prospect.”

Aziraphale shuddered. “Indeed. Heaven’s justice is as cruel as Hell’s. There must be something we can do.”

Crowley sat up, his mouth gone suddenly dry. “There is. We continue the fight. And this,” his eyes swept longingly over their nude forms, “This can never happen again, no matter how much we want it.”

Aziraphale sat up, anxiety written on his face. “I can’t accept that,” he challenged. “I won’t. What’s the point of anything if we can’t be together?”

Crowley moved pick up his clothes but the angel yanked him back down again. “Tell me!” Aziraphale pleaded.

The redhead’s shoulders sank as he settled back into the bed, the angel’s strong hold keeping him from running away. Crowley felt a twisting knife inside his soul, one that wrenched and tore at his existence. “Better that I’d never loved at all,” Crowley said wretchedly. “Either way we’re doomed. Me being with you puts you at risk from your own lot and mine. If I fail Lucifer again He will obliterate me. You have to stay away from me, angel.”

He stirred, escaping from the blonde’s grasp at last. The angel despaired. Crowley pulled on his clothes and walked to the tent entrance, his steps wooden yet determined.

Aziraphale met Crowley’s eyes when he turned to face him. “Do not cross me on the battlefield. Don’t even look in my direction. The next time I see you, I will have no choice but to end you,” the redhead promised. “Know that.”

The angel shuddered, stricken with the cold realization that his truest love could also his executioner. There was only one thing he could do. He stilled his breathing and considered his options. Any other options. There were none.

In the night, Crowley walked away through the pounding rain which served to cover the tears streaming down his face. Nearly.

-

Waterloo, 18 June, 1815

“I have received word that the Prussian troops have reorganized and wait to meet us at Waterloo,” Napoleon mused. “And all I have to do is defeat every single one of them. Easy, no?”

Crowley nodded, hardly listening.

The Emperor dug into his eggs and toast at Le Caillou, the house they’d bedded down at upon the previous evening. His military governor Jean-de-Dieu Soult sat beside him, looking nervous. “We don’t know their numbers yet,” he said. “We should recall the Marquis’ troops just in case. They’re too far away if we need backup.”

Napoleon sneered. “Just because you have all been beaten by Wellington, you think he's a good general. I tell you Wellington is a bad general, the English are bad troops, and this affair is nothing more than eating breakfast." Crowley chuckled in the background.

“We will delay the battle this morning,” Napoleon said decidedly. It has been too wet these past few weeks. Will neither God nor Satan end this wretched rain?” He stared out the window morosely. “When we begin, we’ll aim at Hougoumont.”

“A diversion?” Crowley chimed in, his attention reclaimed.

“Indeed,” the Emperor smiled. “Wellington will be forced to call in his reserves. The battle will be won no sooner than it’s begun.”

The governor merely sighed knowing that there was only one certainty in war. One side would win. One side would lose. The uncertainty of it all were the lots ultimately drawn.

-

The field was suffocated in smoke from over four hundred cannons. Crowley rode through the crowd amongst the cuirassiers, the French armoured cavalry that led the charge. Hougoumont was burning, Napoleon’s thirty-three battalions raging with all the force they could muster. Crowley cut through his enemies but was eventually unhorsed and thrown bodily into the mud. He’d hit his head and was assessing the gash when an incredibly sharp pain pierced through his chest. He looked down, hardly believing the arrow that was lodged halfway into his lungs. He tried to take a breath but it was too painful. Blood was everywhere, leaking out of him and into the ground.

All at once, a bright light surrounded him, blocking out all of the fury and horror of the battle. He looked up through the haze and recoiled.

The angel hovered in front of him. White wings outstretched to their maximum glory. From Aziraphale’s head a firey crown burned hot white light. His exposed skin shone like polished steel. “Demon,” he spoke, his voice cracking at the edges.

Crowley watched as the angel dimmed slightly and set his bare feet on the ground. He approached the redhead and just for a second, Crowley could see a thousand eyes appear and vanish before his sight. In their place was Aziraphale’s cold blue eyes and one single tear falling down his cheek.

“Crowley,” he breathed. “You must repent.”

The redhead realized for the first time that the angel carried a bow which he now let fall to the ground.

“You shot me?” Crowley wheezed, unable to process the event.

“I’m saving you,” the angel insisted. “Crowley you must repent before it’s too late.”

“Repent?” Crowley nearly laughed, but spat out blood instead. “That’s all you can think to say in the middle of all this?” His memory of the first time he’d said that came floating back, but their positions were much reversed the first time they fought.

“You gave me no choice,” the angel’s voice faltered.

“I can’t say I love the alternative,” Crowley replied wryly. “All you’ve done is send me right back to Hell temporarily.”

“No,” Aziraphale replied. “Look closer.”

The redhead’s gaze dropped to the arrow. It appeared to be ordinary, but there was one glaring detail amiss. The feathers that decorated the weapon were no mere fletching. They were stark white and perfect. They even smelled like him.

“Ohh,” Crowley moaned, his eyes filling with tears. “What have you done? You’ve destroyed me!”

“Better than the other way around,” the angel said gravely. “Hell has no restorative powers. Heaven does.”

“You think a bloody conversion will wipe the sins of my past clean?” Crowley asked incredulously. “There’s not enough grace in the universe to undo my crimes!” The force of his lament sent him into a coughing fit. He grimaced and dug his hands into the wet earth.

At the edges of his vision he saw a dark blur growing. It loomed and intercepted Aziraphale’s light, throwing him to the side in a sudden quake and crash. Crowley could once again see the ruin of battle playing out around him, and perhaps worse, the Hellforms of his two would-be accomplices.

“Oh dear!” Beelzebub mock-cried. “I don’t approve of your new angelic ornament.” She eyed the arrow before turning her gaze toward Aziraphale, who lay stunned on the ground. “Neither of them,” she added.

Hastur came to her side and stared down at Crowley. “That looks painful,” he said helpfully. He sniffed the air suspiciously and drew his face into a scowl. “And holy. There’s no discorporating from that.”

“He really got you this time,” Beelzebub agreed. She watched with interest as the angel struggled but failed to stand. “But don’t worry,” she consoled. “We’ve brought something special for our Heavenly friend. Lucifer’s quite ready to get this over with, once and for all.”

She held out an orange and Crowley’s eyebrows twisted in response. “What’s that?” he whimpered.

Hastur eyed the object with glee. “Forbidden fruit,” he whispered.

Beelzebub squeezed and the orange burst into flame, the sickly sweet fire of Hell burning in its place.

“You can’t bring Hellfire to Earth. It’s not possible!” Crowley protested.

“No, you couldn’t before. The only time such things manifest is when a celestial rule has been broken. You don’t happen to remember doing something...untoward recently?” Beelzebub hinted with delight.

Crowley went ashen. The pain in his chest ceased to exist in advance of a different kind of fear. Aziraphale had crawled his way over and cowered on his knees beside the redhead.

“They always said two were better than one,” Hastur quipped. “I’m sure that extends to killing you both for your…” He shuddered. “Your sacrilege!”

Crowley felt the angel’s hand slip into his own, and his piercing blue eyes looked down at him. “I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale murmured. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.”

“I can’t…” Crowley tried desperately. “I thought I could but I can’t lose you angel. Under no circumstance!”

The angel’s tears fell with abandon. “There’s nothing you can do,” he pleaded.

“I can,” Crowley said, focusing on a spot far away from the present scene. His amber eyes twisted and glowed. It took every last ounce of energy, but he let out a primal scream and the frenzy of battle settled into slow motion. Beelzebub’s arm, primed to discharge her weapon became frozen in the air. And then everything stopped.

Crowley regained consciousness as he sensed the healing powers of the angel moving through his body. He felt light and dizzy. It was like drinking a warm cup of tea. The angel’s voice invaded his mind.

“Dearest,” it said softly. “Are you still with me?”

Crowley’s eyes fluttered open. The world around them was held in suspension. Only he and the angel were animate, but Crowley was fading fast.

“Not for long,” he breathed. “It’s taking everything to keep this going.” He stared up into the angel’s eyes and panted hard. “Can’t hold it,” he gasped, his eyes closing tightly.

“Shh,” Aziraphale comforted. “Not long now. I’m embracing your soul. Can you feel it? Let me in, Crowley.”

The redhead emptied his mind and searched for the angel’s grace. An early morning sunrise. The warm glow of a dying fire. The way two hands can fit perfectly together. When Crowley opened his eyes they glittered like diamonds.

“I’m at your side,” Aziraphale reassured. “Nothing can harm you. Just sense me, feel me. Follow me into the light. You are mine and I am yours. Choose the light, my love.”

“I…” Crowley stumbled. The air in his lungs was fading. “I choose you, angel.”

“Your remorse is fading,” Aziraphale guided. “You are forgiven because you forgive yourself.”

Crowley relived everything he’d ever done. The lives slain and innocents rent by his hand. He thought of Joan burning. Her eyes drawing toward the heavens in supplication. He thought about death. And then he thought about his angel. His savior and confessor. If Aziraphale could love him yet, perhaps Crowley could do the same. “I do,” the redhead breathed. The earth trembled and lurched.

Time unfroze and Beelzebub’s elbow jerked forward. Crowley reached out and grabbed the ball like it was nothing. He stared at it with disinterest before letting it fall to the ground, a mere pile of ashes. As he stood, the arrow in his chest disintegrated.

“Well...fuck,” Hastur commented.

“What is this?” Beelzebub hissed angrily. “What are you?”

Crowley smiled while Aziraphale stood haughtily behind him.

“Not an angel,” Crowely replied. “Not a demon. Just a dash of chaos reborn.”

Aziraphale unsheathed his sword and held it aloft. It burst into Heavenly flames and caught the sun, blinding Crowley’s former colleagues. “May I do the honor, my love?” he asked the redhead. Crowley nodded.

The angel moved without moving. His arm swung in an arc so quickly it hardly grazed the air. Beelzebub stood uncertainly before falling to her knees. Hastur looked down at her in surprise right before his head fell from his body. Beelzebub’s followed after.

Crowley held out his hand and Aziraphale took it, intertwining their fingers and squeezing tightly. The redhead stared out at the grounds of Waterloo which were finally free of embattled figures. The last of the French had fallen, sealing Napoleon’s fate. Crowley grimaced and looked meaningfully at his angel.

“And now the real battle begins,” he intoned.


	5. Here at the end of all things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a long-suffering labor of love. God give me strength!

Heaven, where time does not exist

Aziraphale strode purposefully toward the gates in his full angelic regalia. Crowley followed after more tentatively, and ran his hand over the pearl-studded bars as if they might burn him, but they didn’t.

Aziraphale spoke with the Keeper of the Keys in a low voice. Crowley was surprised when St. Peter merely nodded as if he’d been expecting them. They walked through a clouded haze until they reached the other side. And then everything changed.

Crowley squinted into the prismatic light that surrounded them and felt his knees collapse underneath him. He sat shaking on the ground, tears pouring down his pale face. Aziraphale was at his side at once. The angel’s hands radiated comfort and warmth, and Crowley clung to them.

“I was alone. I didn’t know until now. I can feel Her Aziraphale!” Crowley breathed, his voice cracking high. The sensation of Her presence threatened to overtake him.

“I can only imagine,” the angel replied. He couldn’t help but think of those who Fell. It was one thing to connect to the light for the first time, and quite another to lose it. It was said that the loss drove the Fallen mad, that their demonic nature was less Lucifer’s influence than Her abandonment. Aziraphale couldn’t stave off a shiver.

His hands came under Crowley’s arms and lifted him bodily, a comforting arm circling his waist. “Come on,” he encouraged. “She’s waiting.”

They moved through the marble city which shimmered under suns in all directions. Crowley soon realized these were not dying stars, but glowing angels breathing four different words: Yud, Hey, Vav, Hey, over and over again. Aziraphale explained that these were the four Hebrew letters of God’s true name, inutterable by anyone but the Heavenly Host. Crowley bit his lower lip and looked anxious.

“I shouldn’t be here,” the redhead said nervously.

“Of course you should!” the angel protested. “Crowley you have nothing to fear. Look now, we’ve come to our destination.”

They entered a large hall. Light emanated from within, pointing the way toward a throne encircled by a rainbow. Crowley felt his knees wobbling again but Aziraphale held him up. They made their way to the end of the silver room and Crowley noticed several thrones surrounding the central one. Crowned beings who looked like elderly men and women occupied those seats. In each cardinal direction were four divine beings. Three of them had six wings covered in multicolored eyes. One had the face of a calf, another an eagle, the third a lion. The fourth appeared to be a normal human with a face that was not unkind.

Crowley’s attention was drawn away by a flicker of soundless lightning over the central throne. A large tome appeared on the cushion. The human-shaped being from the southern direction approached and pick up the book reverently. A flicker of recognition stilled Crowley’s beating heart.

“That is Christ,” he whispered.

Aziraphale nodded reverently. “The Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.”

They watched as Jesus opened the first four of seven seals on the book. Thunder cracked overhead and the sound of hooves followed swiftly after. Four riders appeared out of nowhere, each astride a horse. One carried a bow, the other a sword, and another a pair of scales. It was the fourth rider that caused Crowley’s lips to tremble. He shrank behind Aziraphale as Death appeared on an ashen horse. His presence cast a dark shadow in the ethereal hall.

Jesus held up his hand and the four riders departed, each moving in a separate direction. He then looked at the angel and Crowley for the first time. “Wait for the sound of seven trumpets,” he said softly. “The waters will turn to blood. The Sun will scorch the earth. Her will be done.”

“Her will be done,” the elders echoed.

Crowley felt like he was going to be sick. The overpowering love he’d felt earlier was boiling into obsession. Wrath. Revenge. He clutched his stomach as a dizzy sensation spread through his body. And then he was falling backwards, clawing at the air for anything to hold on to. He found Aziraphale’s hand, and the two plunged to Earth amidst raining stars.

-

London, 1943

“Crowley,” the angel’s voice was an echo of an echo.

The redhead stirred, clutching his head. Aziraphale was holding him in his arms. Crowley took in their surroundings and started.

“We’re back?” he questioned. And then in a rasping voice, “They let us go?” The angel nodded.

“It’s not right,” the redhead continued. “We can’t let it happen.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “What can you mean?”

Crowley got to his feet shakily. “We can’t let the Apocalypse unfold,” he lamented. “The battle will destroy the planet and its people!”

“But begin anew!” the angel argued. “It’s all part of Her ineffable plan!”

Crowley spat at the ground and Aziraphale blanched. “Her plan? Yeah I’ve heard that one before,” the redhead said heatedly. He kicked at the earth and sat as if he’d never move again. “It’s all wrong.”

The angel huffed and knelt beside him. “We cannot know Her reasons,” he began, “We must have faith to guide us through.”

“You have faith,” Crowley accused. “Perhaps in place of sense. But do you truly understand the consequences? All will be lost! All life on Earth! And then what did we fight for?”

“I don’t know,” the angel admitted. “I was only ever Her agent. It’s not my place to-”

“To what?” Crowley lashed out. “You forget I’ve seen the other side. Heaven and Hell might as well be the same. I felt Her spite, Her will to abandon all She loves...to see this to the end.”

“You have to choose,” the angel intoned. “The dark or the light. Surely you can’t condone the former!”

“I don’t,” Crowley chuffed. “But after seeing Heaven’s true nature I can’t choose that either. If I have a side it’s with humanity. This isn’t their fight but they will suffer nonetheless. Tell me you feel the same.”

“I’m an angel!” Aziraphale reprimanded. “I will not forsake Her! Don’t ask me to. My love, don’t ask it.” His face twitched in misery.

Crowley found the angel’s hand and clasped it tightly to his chest. “Why all this cruelty and malice?” he broke off. “Tell me how She can let it happen? There has to be another way!”

Aziraphale steeled himself but cradled Crowley’s head in his arms. “Please,” he pleaded. “Don’t leave me now in the middle of all this. Don’t stray from my side...I can’t abide it. Tell me you love me?”

“I do!” Crowley vowed. Of this, he was certain. “Yet these two sides demand sacrifice which isn’t theirs to take. Why should the humans suffer for unearthly vendettas?”

“She created all,” Aziraphale argued. “They are bound to it.”

“Not all. Not me,” Crowley disagreed. “I will fight with man like I have done in all my time on earth. Do you remember Joan? How could you not... She gave her life to defend the faith and died mewling like a child, pitilessly. Where was Heaven when she stood burning? Do you know what I believe in? I believe in you, but not how Heaven would cast you: as a nameless agent of the light to be used toward their ends. You should fight with me, defend them with me!” His hand shot out to indicate the world around them and its inhabitants.

They were at an impasse. The angel could plead and beg but it would be useless. Their aims were not aligned. Instead, Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley’s even as tears began to pour down his face.

The angel took shelter in the crook of Crowley’s neck. “I can’t say how this ends,” he admitted. “But know that I love you.”

“And I love you,” Crowley replied. “So much.” He broke off in choked laughter. “It never ends, does it? It doesn’t matter how we’re opposed or aligned. We will always be at odds.”

“How I wish that weren’t true,” the cherubic blonde lamented. “But it is.”

The first trumpet sounded, shaking the leaves on the surrounding trees. Car alarms honked and the people around them stopped uncertainly.

“My love,” Crowley gasped, his voice broken and haunted. His hands reached out to reclaim his angel but failed.

“It begins,” Aziraphale replied. He took a step back and vanished.

-

Tel Megiddo, the Seventh trumpet

Fire and ice, honor and vitriol. Both reigned and fell on the mount. 

The interior force of Heaven defended while Hell’s forces advanced. The scent of scorched wings and foul demons made for a pungent mixture. Aziraphale breathed them in alike and steeled himself to his purpose, heralding victory in the face of all odds. He stayed vigilant for his demon but didn’t find him immediately. That would come much later.

Crowley was true to his word. He had located the nearest colony of humans and bound dark wards to shield them from the eternals. If one trespassed the demon dispatched them, careless of which side they represented. He prayed Aziraphale would not be one of them.

The angels and demons had enough action to occupy them. Black and white wings blurred into grey as they sought ultimate domination. The resultant battle eclipsed the war in Heaven tenfold. In the cloud-high realm, during the Fall, there had been bloodshed, but this was carnage. Angels stuttered at the end of wicked spears while demons melted at the impact of holy water bombs. Hellfire burned fields and meteors crashed into the land, although it was unclear which side directed them.

God’s invention of day and night meant little here. Days, months, or years went by as the armies of Heaven and Hell replenished themselves, feeding off of the souls of mortal men. Try as he might, Crowley could not prevent the war’s eventual spread to outlying lands. It threatened to consume the world as he feared.

And then She appeared, terrible in her awesome cruelty. Crowley watched God’s chariot streak across the sky, reminding him of Greek fables. Apollo was given credit for the feat of daily resurrection, but it was always Hers to command. Wherever She rode a trail of divine fire burst forth and desecrated the earth. He hadn’t remembered Her corporeal form, the metric that defined humanity and lulled one into a false sense of understanding Her grace. But She was no earthly being at all. She was cruelty and ruin writ large. No wonder Lucifer had envied and emulated her so. Such total power drew eyes and minds to fathom what it would feel like to be wholly unto oneself. She governed the stars...the fates of men and angels alike. With one finger She could mute reality for She was reality.

Crowley cowered under Her wake and rocked himself back and forth. There was no hope. How foolish of him to pretend it.

From region to nation, from nation to continent, the battle raged on. Crowley retreated again and again only to find a new line had interceded into new, human-occupied realms. It was no use. He found himself despairing at his failure. It was only near the end that he would finally see his angel, at the death of time itself.

Crowley slashed through perhaps the millionth foe when he felt the cataclysm grow silent. The earth shook and whispered with unforeseen power. The demon instinctively knew within his charred heart that Lucifer was rising. It wasn’t an earthquake, because even the worst of those had only wrought mass extinction. He could almost feel Satan’s style, fashionably late to the end of the world. It burnt like an oven set to broil.

The wind ceased and the air in his lungs was sucked out of his body. He watched his human companions fall to the ground gasping. They were suffocating. An atom bomb erupted in the center of the large field knit with embattled angels and demons. They flew up and away from the force of the blast, and great red arms took their place. From the stinking depths, Satan groaned and pulled himself out of Hell.

Crowley fought off a trio of angels that had tried to take advantage of his temporary shock but managed to beat them all back with some of the last strength he held in his body. It was then that he came face to face with his angel, blackened from battle but wielding his sword aloft. Aziraphale’s expression was stricken, panic having long since taken his senses. He slashed at the demon without recognition.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley cried out as the angel drove him toward the edge of a fathomless precipice. Below was Satan’s pit, cracking open wider every second to devour the world. From above, She rode down on her chariot and lashed out at the Prince of Hell. Crowley could hardly follow the action as the angel kept beating him back.

“Aziraphale, please!” Crowley screamed, dodging the onslaught of his endless parrying. “You know me!” He grabbed his helmet and shucked it into the pit. Aziraphale had brought down his sword like a hammer and had pinned Crowley to the crumbling facade of the castle wall.

Blue eyes went wide as they met amber and the angel winced. “My love?” he asked. “The world is burning!”

Crowley could sense his panic and dismay. The angel was still pushing him as if he had no control over his body or mind.

“Please, my darling,” Crowley begged. “I can see you in there. I know you don’t want to do this. Come back to me!” The war had gone on too long, bringing its combatants to the point of madness. He refused to let go of his faith in the angel.

“It’s the end of all things,” Aziraphale said as if in a trance. “We’re all going to die.”

“No!” Crowley swore. “Not today! We can fix this!” He felt his body starting to lean over the wall. If Aziraphale didn’t stop pushing him he’d been done for.

“I swear to you by all that’s sacred and profane that we will overcome this insanity,” Crowley tried again. “But I can’t do it alone my love. Take my hand, angel.”

He pushed Aziraphale off of him and threw his sword over the side of the wall. “Take my hand,” he cried out, tears streaming down his face.

Aziraphale started to lower his sword as if finally understanding. “Crowley…” he whimpered.

The demon smiled for the first time and moved to step forward, not seeing the smooth pile of rocks beneath his left foot. He slipped backwards, arms wild as if trying to regain his balance and Aziraphale’s hand was out reaching for his own. It grasped at the air and Crowley disappeared, hearing only the tortured screams of his angel. And he fell. And he fell. And he fell.


End file.
